The Commission
by spotdot
Summary: The melodramatic Marco has been commisioned despite his lack of skill and experience, and hopes to aid his friend on his journey to love. But who'd have thought he'd make a journey to love of his own? With the ugly horseface Jean of all people? Why, why did it have to be this way!


"Oh my goodness, I'm _dying_."

Connie rolls his eyes at me as he packs his Nike backpack with all the essentials (i.e. lots of sweets, a small wooden cross coated in garlic sauce, plus a big bottle of sunscreen) on top of the single, white sheeted bed opposite the one I'm on. "Marco, stop being so melodramatic."

"I am _dying_. You killed me when you dared me to eat those out-of-date cheese burgers from a suspicious, foreign fast food restaurant." I glare at him as I lift the pillow from my face, pursing my lips angrily. "_Deal_. With it."

He sighs. "Okay, okay. I'm _sorry_ you got food poisoning. But I'll take lots of pictures of Dracula's Castle for you, alright? Maybe I should get a teddy bear to take with us and stick a picture of your face on it... It'd be as though you were there with us all along." he nods wisely, stroking his bare chin with a finger and thumb as if in thought.

"If you're not careful with what you say, Connie, I'll use _you_ to stuff a teddy bear. And throw you in the Danube river. Then I'll let all the starving vampires fish you out and eat you."

He stares at me blankly, then pouts and whimpers. "You're so _cruel _when you're ill." he pretends to sob. I block him out by covering my face with the pillow again.

After a few minutes I begin to fall asleep, but then Connie stops making his rustling noises.

"...Hey, Marco?" I hum in reply, too tired and nauseous to be angry at him anymore. "You know how I like Sasha?"

I can't fight the smirk that reaches my face, but thankfully he can't see it to call me out on it.

"...Yes, _I_ know how you like _Sasha_."

He doesn't usually talk about his feelings or his crush very often, so I'm quite willing to listen. "What about it? Are you finally going to tell me what you're naming your hypothetical children?"

He scoffs. "_No_." I peer at him from beneath my blanket, and sure enough he's gone bright red, the colour a stark contrast to his pale skin. "Actually, I'm thinking of confessing to her during the trip, and... I was wondering if you could help me."

I bolt upright in bed, throwing the pillow halfway across the room, eyes wide open, that is, until my stomach clenches painfully. "_Do tell_. How may I be of service to you, _frate_?" We all learned the local slang before we got here, of course.

Connie sighs again, but this time his breath sounds shaky. He looks out the window wistfully. "I was thinking of writing her a poem-"

"A _love poem_?" I get that Transylvania is an ancient city, but the thing is, Connie, is that _we haven't actually travelled back to Medieval times-_

"That's the one. And well, I'm not really good at that sort of stuff, so I thought maybe you could help me write it...?"

An image passes through my head where I see Connie handing Sasha the poem, her reading it and turning pink, then hugging him tightly while they both giggle and they're perfect together with their identical goofy natures and food stealing tendencies and _oh_ the FEELS.

Being the Chosen Wingman makes pride swell up in my throat. At least, I hope it's pride. The toilet is too far away for me to deal with acid right at this moment.

"I'd love to help you!" I remember something, and frown, slowly laying down again. "But wait, isn't she leaving our school after the trip?"

"She said it depends on whether she wants to go with her dad or not. Hopefully, I can convince her to stay." Sitting down on his bed, he faces me and fiddles with the strap of his bag. "I mean, if she doesn't _want_ to stay with her mom, then I guess that's her choice. But at least if I give her something to keep, she might remember me for longer."

I reach out and pat his knee sympathetically. "Leave it to me, buddy. I'm going to be bored stiff for goodness knows how long in this hotel. Might as well be productive while I'm at it."

With a bounce, he stands up, bag in hand, yells his thanks and promises to take photos before slamming the door. Leaving me alone in our room. Why, food poisoning, _why must you do this to me_? Seeing as I'm already awake (all thanks to Connie and his inability to fall out of bed _quietly_ in the morning) I may as well start writing.

Fifty minutes later sees me with my trusty notebook, several verses scribbled out. I'm scowling at the pages as they _defy _me with my terrible writings.

"_You are very pretty, you are very sweet, you like potatoes, you like meat..."_

"_I like wavy brown hair and that's what you have, oh baby, yeah-"_

_You look like a chipmunk and you're so cute that my heart stops working-_

"_I like you a lot so can we fall into the pot of love..."_

_Slam you against the wall and kiss you hard, makes my dick hard because I like it rough-_

My pencil breaks in my hand. I flop down onto my bed in defeat.

"Ow." I cry out softly because my ego has been sorely wounded.

I think it should be mentioned that in all my sixteen years, even though I've been confessed to a couple of times; I've never made a love confession.

Or read a romance novel.

Or had a crush on anyone.

Why, _why _must I be such a _nice_ but _useless_ friend?!

It's two o'clock in the afternoon, and the full moon is shining down onto the linoleum floor of the hotel lounge. The moon hasn't been very useful for inspiration, but it makes me wonder: do werewolves stay in wolf form for days on end when it's a winter's full moon?

Maybe we'll find some werewolves here in Romania. The locals spread rumours about there being vampires here in order to protect the werewolves, _obviously._

Speaking of transforming creatures, there's a boy sitting on the leather couch in the dimly lit hotel lounge. He's cradling a glossy wine-red guitar in his arms like it's his precious child. Stroking his fingers up and down the fretboard as though he's soothing it.

He's thumbing at the strings so that they vibrate lowly, repetitively, and create a hypnotic sound; a sound that rings around the room like a surround sound speaker, a sound that strikes my attention so that I sit upright and glance his way.

It's a sound that my feet lead me to, away from my seat at the bar where I'm eating my free tub of ice cream (one of the privileges of being sick while on a school trip) and still trying to write that stupid love poem. I'm wearing my pyjamas and dressing gown because this is my second life. I won't waste it.

That boy is Jean Kirschtein.

Usually, he's a clumsy guy. His hair is dyed two clashing colours, and he goes cross eyed when he's mad, which is quite often, especially when Eren Jaeger is in the same room as him. More often than not, people doodle Jean with donkey ears and exaggerated buck teeth.

Jean's been in most of my classes for the two years that we've been at high school. We never really talk much, but I _have_ tried, seeing as he usually sits by himself and seems vaguely interesting when drawing mysterious things into his doodle pad.

But _this_ boy, a boy who can't possibly be Jean, is sitting with a gentle expression, wearing a flannel shirt, tenderly gazing at his deft fingers on the instrument that's resting in his lap as the sweet, melancholic melody echoes around the lounge room that's empty apart from the two of us and the sleeping bartender, the blue light of the moon shines on his face and mussed hair at _just_ the right angle to make him look the picture of serenity and beauty.

What kind of werewolf _is _he? It's like... A reverse werewolf.

It's like _Beauty and the Beast_.

Apparently, I'm Belle.

Feeling curious and a little awestruck, I sneak up behind the black pillar that separates the two halves of the lounge: the bar area and the entertainment area. He starts rocking back and forth, denim covered legs spaced out to balance the instrument on his legs, and more importantly; he starts_ singing._

His voice is almost a whisper, with a scratchy quality as if to match the bitter emotions buried in the lyrics he sings.

"_Did I drive you away?"_

My brown eyes widen, heart stuttering painfully with the new sound, making me cover my mouth with a now clammy hands to prevent the threatening squeak that's creeping up my throat and forming a lump there. Goosebumps trail up my forearms and tingle the hairs on my neck.

"_I know what you'll say, you say: oh, see one and go."_

On top of my cheeks, my palms burn as the heat is transferred, my breath coming out as shaky gasps of air through my nose, tickling my fingertips. I don't need a mirror to see that I'm blushing ridiculously.

Holy _shit._

This guy can _sing. _Really sing. And play the guitar as though it's his magic power.

_Who are you and what have you done with Jean Kirschtein?!_

I release another broken breath with a light feeling in my chest, now relying on the pillar for support as I listen to the rest of the song, watching him from my hiding place and swaying discreetly as his music moves my body. His face contorts as though he's in pain.

"_I cry, ah..." _His volume increases at the end of the word and so does my heart rate.

He sings like he means _every_ word, as though he's trying to make me empathize with him. It's working, it's working all too well, and I wonder who it was that broke his heart.

As though he's half asleep, Jean looks up with hooded eyes towards the flat screen T.V on the wall in front of him, shifting his position so he's more comfortable.

"_I saw sparks. Yeah, I saw sparks..." _

He stops playing, no longer singing. I assume that that's the end of the song and I will _desperately _for him to keep playing. He could sing "It's a small world" and I wouldn't care, so long as I get to hear him sing again.

Then I take in his wide eyed stare, his stiffened shoulders and the holes he's burning in my direction with a fearful expression.

_Oh_. Um. He's _looking _at me. He's _seen_ me. He's probably wondering how long I've been standing by the pillar like a _creep_.

I try to save myself and brace the chances of there being bad consequences once I say what I'm about to.

"That was," I take a deep breath, still in a daze because even though the song stopped, the magic hasn't left. He still looks _perfect_ somehow. I shake my head as I scramble to find the right words in my hazy mind, smiling as I recollect the way he brought me into the music.

"That was _beautiful, _Jean."

My chest sinks when I realize what I've just said. But that light feeling comes back when I see him ducking his head downwards, looking down at the guitar bashfully and blushing so furiously that even his neck is red.

Jean scratches at his hair with long fingers. "Y-Yeah..." he says, choking on air.

He stands up abruptly, reaching out to put the guitar back on that stand, seeing as it must belong to the hotel, and mumbles about having to get ready for dinner which isn't for another four hours, trying to make his way past me.

Before he can get anywhere though, I stop him with a hand on his clothed shoulder when he passes me, even though my palms are burning at the contact. I'm trembling at the thought of physical contact with _Jean_, of all people. That's _never_ happened before. Not in all the two years he's been my classmate.

He avoids my eyes but I hold mine to his hazel ones as a bubbling feeling fizzes in my stomach, making me clench his shoulder a little tighter.

"Please stay," I beg, sounding hoarse thanks to my fever that's mostly gone. "I-I'd really like to hear you do another song."

Or two more songs. Or three. Or a billion. But I don't tell him that because I'm going to wait until he's a famous singer so that I can send him fan-mail anonymously. (There's a method to my madness.)

Since he's a few inches shorter than me, he has to look up to make eye-contact. But when he does, my eyes dart downwards on his face and I have this _maddening_ urge to press my lips to his. What would his lips taste like? Would they be warm? Soft? Just the thought of it makes my mouth buzz.

I've never felt _this_ way around him before.

_What the hell_?

He nods with a non-committal grunt and hunches his shoulders, trudging back to the couch while I eagerly bounce up and follow. Once we're both seated and the guitar is on his lap, he scowls at me then begrudgingly asks what song I want him to play.

I'm hoping that the fact I find his narrowed eyes _cute_ all of a sudden is just a phase, something that will pass, and _soon._

Smiling at him a little too eagerly, I laugh at nothing like I'm insane and I bite my lip in the hope that I can just _shut up._ I don't really know why, but I'm too nervous to let him get close to me. At the same time I want him _very _close to me.

My thorat is dry when he looks over at me again and then all of a sudden that fact -the fact that he _really is _looking at me- is all I can think of and _wow,_ I did _not_ realize he had such nice hazel eyes-

"Do you want me to sing or not?" He squirms uncomfortably next to me eyes, darting around the room. "You better not be making fun of me."

"W-what?" I gasp. My whole body is on fire because he's looking at me, why is he _looking_ at me, aagghh.

I stare down at the floor instead with my notebook on my lap, hands firmly placed on my jittery knees as I try to calm myself.

"I ju- I just _really_ liked hearing you play the guitar. And your singing. You sing so _well,_ Jean, I-I, how come you never _told_ anyone?!"

I glance over at him and watch as his Adam's Apple bobs, can't help but notice that he purses his mouth tightly and I have to look away again as I gulp before I start thinking about kissing him again.

"Well," he starts cautiously. "In middle school I got asked to sing a lot, but when I got stage fright, they tried even harder to make me sing until I just ignored them."

I can feel him shrug. Why are our shoulders touching? Why does this couch have to be so small?! Why am I overreacting so much?!

"Not exactly a tragic story, but it was... It was pretty embarrassing to be forced like that. So I never sang around people when I started high school."

I force myself to look at him. He needs to know I'm sincere. "...I'm not trying to embarrass you."

"You seem like a nice guy, but I just had to make sure you weren't teasing me."

When I laugh again, I laugh _way_ too hard and I'm _still _giggling stupidly when I say, "Me? I- I would _never_ tease you!"

A clear, sensible idea pops into my head amidst my panicking. "U-um, would, uh, I mean, do you... do you have any songs that you wrote?"

He frowns and his mouth curls downwards. "Why d'you want me to play one of _my_ songs?"

"Oh s-so you do write songs?" I glance down at the book in my lap and hold it up for him to see. "I'm in a bit of a jam, see, because a friend asked if I would write him a love poem to give to his crush, but I haven't got a clue as to h-how I do that. Maybe one of your songs could give me inspiration?" I finish the sentence as though I've just run a thousand mile marathon.

He places the guitar down so that it's leaning against the couch and reaches for the book. "Can I see what you wrote?"

I feel myself shrinking, blushing terribly and trying to hide my grimacing face behind the book. "It's all absolutely _awful_. I know you could write much better stuff."

He raises an eyebrow at me, resting a hand between our thighs. A hand that I am _much_ too aware of. "If you let me see what you did and it's as bad as you say, I'll help you write something better."

There's something about the way he asks, maybe it's his voice, that makes me give in immediately. I skip through the book and give it to him when it's at the right page, gasping when his fingers brush mine during the exchange. It-it's so _weird_. Really, really_ weird_. It feels like _electric_ is coursing through me when we touch and burning at the bottom of my stomach.

Not even a minute later, his legs are practically resting on top of mine, the remainder of him falling off the couch as he laughs his head off. For the first time since I sat beside him, I'm not overwhelmed at the contact. Instead I'm giving him my best deadpan stare and trying to fight the blush in my cheeks.

"You can stop laughing now."

"S-sor _heh-hee-hee-hee _I c-can't, can't even, oh my _god_." Then he throws his head back and starts laughing so hard he's snorting. I end up joining in, hiding my face in my hands because I really shouldn't be blushing over how cute his bubbly laugh is and wincing at how horribly grating mine sounds.

Two minutes later, we've been told off by the English speaking bartender for making too much noise and we regard each other seriously.

"You quite clearly require my assistance, Mr. Bodt." he looks directly into my eyes and that's when I become certain I'm going to suffer from heart failure. Lung failure. _Something_ in me is going to stop working at some point, and I hope that _something_ won't be my mind-to-mouth filter.

I nod, biting my lip as I try to suppress a grin. "Y-yeah, I really do."

"So... Say we _do_ write this love poem for this "friend" of yours. What's he going to do with it?"

"Uh, he'll give it to his crush, I guess."

"And who is this crush of yours?"

I baulk when I realize he's misread the whole situation. I flap my hands in a wild gesture. "Nononono! It's for Connie to give to Sasha, not for _me_!" He blinks back at me, mouth dropping open ever so slightly. I squeak and cover my mouth.

"I did not just tell you that." my hand muffles my voice. My eyes are trained onto the ceiling, avoiding his, in the fear I'll give away to him the secrets of the universe.

"It's okay, I won't tell." he hisses inwardly and mutters under his breath. "Not like I've got anyone to tell _anyway_..." he shakes his head with a sigh and I put my hand back down. My eyes are distracted by his blonde and brown undercut when he starts talking again. I have to tune in to what he's saying a little late.

"And then we tell her who the song's from. Connie asks her out on stage and BOOM something happens." he watches me expectantly, hazel eyes brimming with excitement and _oh lord, not again with the dizzy feelings. _

I clear my throat and shuffle back onto the couch. "So we're writing a song?"

"Yeah, I write, well, _we_ write the lyrics, I do the chords, tell everyone on talent show night the song's dedicated to someone. If Connie can't sing, then I'll perform it for him and tell Sasha it was from him. How does that sound? That way he's making more of an impression on her than by just giving her a piece of paper."

Taking in his plan, I nod slowly, but then grimace and shake my head. "Won't it be really embarrassing for him if he confesses his feelings in front of our whole class? Like, what if she rejects him?" I never like being a realist, but when it comes to Connie's love life I don't really want to take too many chances.

"I dunno, man. But I reckon with such a bold move, it'll show other potential girlfriends what he's willing to do for them. Chicks dig courage. Or, well, I'd at least _admire_ someone with the balls to do that."

I sigh happily, grinning at the floor like an idiot, reaching my fingers up to play with my short black hair. "I'll ask him. It does seem like a good idea. You'll still help me if he says no to the song idea, right?"

"Sure thing." He flashes me a toothy smile. Even though his teeth are really crooked, I can't seem to help but find it adorable and promptly melt on the spot.


End file.
